“I don’t scare you, do I?” he asked her with a smirk, wiggling his twiggy fingers at her.
She shook her head wordlessly.
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you would be scared of much. Not if you weren’t scared of the feeders or that big dog. Nossir. You wouldn’t be scared of a sylvan, I told myself.”
She stared at him. “What’s a sylvan?”
“Me. That’s what I am. A sylvan. Have been all my life.” He chuckled at his own humor, then cleared his throat officiously. “My name is Pick. What’s yours?”
“Nest,” she told him.
“Actually, I knew that. I’ve been watching you for quite a while, young lady.”
“You have?”
“Watching is what sylvans do much of the time. We’re pretty good at it. Better than cats, as a matter of fact. You don’t know much about us, I don’t expect.”
She thought a moment. “Are you an elf?”
“An elf!” he exclaimed in horror. “An elf? I should guess not! An elf, indeed! Utter nonsense!” He drew himself up. “Sylvans are real, young lady. Sylvans are forest creatures- like tatterdemalions and riffs-but hardworking and industrious. Always have been, always will be. We have important responsibilities to exercise.”
She nodded, not certain exactly what he was saying. “What do you do?”
“I look after the park,” Pick declared triumphantly. “All by myself, I might add. That’s a lot of work! I keep the magic in balance. You know about magic, don’t you? Well, there’s a little magic in everything and a lot in some things, and it all has to be kept in balance. There’s lots of things that can upset that balance, so I have to keep a careful watch to prevent that from happening. Even so, I’m not always successful. Then I have to pick up the pieces and start over.”
“Can you do magic?” she asked curiously.
“Some. More than most forest creatures, but then I’m older than most. I’ve been at this a long time.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Are you like Rumpelstiltskin?”
Pick turned crimson. “Am I like Rumpelstiltskin? Crirriiny! What kind of question is that? What did I just get through telling you? That’s the trouble with six-year-olds! They don’t have any attention span! No, I am not like Rumpelstiltskin! That’s a fairy tale! It isn’t real! Sylvans don’t go around spinning straw into gold, for goodness’ sake! What kind of education are they giving you in school these days?”
Nest didn’t say anything, frightened by the little man’s outburst. The leaves that stuck out of the top of his head were rustling wildly, and his twiggy feet were stamping so hard she was afraid they would snap right off. She glanced nervously toward her house.
“Now, don’t do that! Don’t be looking for your grandmother, like you think you might need her to come out and shoo me away. I just got done telling you that I knew you weren’t afraid of much. Don’t make a liar out of me.” Pick spread his arms wide in dismay. “I just get upset sometimes with all this fairy-tale bunk. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know you’re only six. Look, I’m over a hundred and fifty years old! What do I know about kids?”
Nest looked at him. “You’re a hundred and fifty? You are not.”
“Am so. I was here before this town was here. I was here when there were no houses anywhere!” Pick’s brow furrowed. “Life was much easier then.”
“How did you get to be so old?”
“So old? That’s not old for a sylvan! No, sir! Two hundred and fifty is old for a sylvan, but not one hundred and fifty.” Pick cocked his head. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Nest nodded solemnly, not sure yet if she did or not.
“It’s important that you do. Because you and I are going to be good friends, Nest Freemark. That’s why I’m here. To tell you that.” Pick straightened. “Now, what do you think? Can we be friends, even though I shout at you once in a while?”
Nest smiled. “Sure.”
“Friends help each other, you know,” the sylvan went on. “I might need your help sometime.” He gave her a conspiratorial look. “I might need your help keeping the magic in balance. Here, in the park. I could teach you what I know. Some of it, anyway. What do you think? Would you like that?”